IN THE MABSH. 125 



Three o'clock in the morning, with the moon dimly 

 shining, I call at your home. Of course you are up. 

 What young hunter goes to bed with mind filled with 

 pleasant anticipations of a day of sport is able to sleep 

 out his allotted time ? He still remains undiscovered. 

 As a dark shadows flits between me and the lighted lamp, 

 I know a youthful form is impatiently awaiting my com- 

 ing. The door is open, and cordial greeting invites me 

 in. Fragrant and delicious there steals to me through 

 the frosty air the aroma of boiling coffee, and as I glance 

 back at the calm sky, it seems to me that the silent stars 

 glitter less coldly down on the slumbering earth. 

 Thoughtful in you to have this coffee ready before our 

 departure. It is wonderful the effect a cup of hot 

 coffee has on one's system when starting out at break 

 of day ; there is nothing equal to it. A cup of coffee 

 and a sandwich then are not surpassed by the most 

 elaborate menu at any other time. There is an indefin- 

 able relish in it that every hunter knows and appre- 

 ciates. 



The frosty November air has laden all unprotected 

 objects with a whitened shroud. The stillness of the 

 surroundings, the purity of the atmosphere, causes the 

 faint rappings of the oars against the boat's side to re- 

 sound with a loud crash. Don lies snugly at my feet, 

 his favorite bed. You pull with youthful strength and 

 vigor the light boat, until she skims over the water ; 

 then, as if to show the strength of your strong arms, 

 your broad back bends to the oars, the ash blades quiver, 

 the boat not sufficiently long to respond to the full force 

 of those strong strokes surges ahead, displacing a huge 

 volume of water at her bow ; while waves of miniature 

 billows retreat from the boat's sides. As you raise the 



